


Red

by Catsintheattic



Series: Rainbow Series [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Gen, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Sixth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-26
Updated: 2007-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/pseuds/Catsintheattic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red is the colour of love – and war. A glimpse of Draco and Neville on the night when the Dark Mark came to stand at the sky above Hogwarts.</p><p>Set mid June, 1997.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

Draco was shaking whenever he thought about the scene a few weeks back, about the trauma of being found, cursed, and nearly slaughtered by Potter. A red mark was left on his chest, and he still felt painful stabs when turning his torso sideways to reach for something. Professor Snape, of course, had been furious – not only with Potter, but with him as well. While Draco had been forced to endure senseless hours of waiting in the hospital wing, having his wounds mended and taken care of, his Head of House had berated him for his unwillingness to co-operate. After the first shock over his injuries had worn off, Snape had pegged away at him endlessly. But Draco had stayed firm. He would not comply, would not give in and tell anybody about the task that he had been set to accomplish. Not even his Head of House.

To tell would mean to take the risk of losing control of the execution. And if Draco weren’t the one to execute the task, he wouldn’t get the credit for it. Then, he would lose his parents, his heritage, his future. His whole world was at stake. Who cared about Potter and his pathetic attempts to fight the Dark Lord, when He could control life and death at Azkaban as well as at Malfoy Manor? 

Deep in his heart, Draco knew he would never be much of a fighter. During the whole year he had worked hard to accomplish his task, but he wouldn’t be able to make a stand against an outright threat, against pain, or against the life of another person in the flesh. If he was to kill, he had to do it with venom and cunning, using the impersonal means of an assassin instead of the wand to wand combat of a warrior. 

As soon as he had been able to walk, Draco had stumbled away from the infirmary, away from Madam Pomfrey’s anxious looks and Professor Snape’s stern questions. His teachers, however well-meaning, were just another obstacle on his way to success. And success it had to be in the end, or else – Draco dismissed this line of thinking; it would get him nowhere.

The last days had indeed given him some sort of success and he was on his way to the Room once more, to give his equipment the final testing. His hands trembled as he thought about how near he had been to succeeding for the last weeks. There hadn’t been the need to send him his mother’s hair and fingernails in a wooden box – with the short note implying that next time, the knife would cut some inches closer to the skin. There hadn’t been the need to scare his mother so badly. Draco had begun to fear the owls soaring near the Slytherin table in the mornings. He knew his Master meant business. Draco had almost reached his goal. If it weren’t for Potter and his dark curse, he would have claimed success almost three weeks ago. Draco gritted his teeth. Gryffindors – always the good doers and always messing up things for the worst.

He finally reached the seventh floor and whispered his mantra to the empty wall. “I need an Unplottable room to mend the Vanishing Cabinet.” The wall reformed itself and showed him a blank, iron door. Draco firmly pressed the handle and slipped into his Room of Requirement.

It was late evening when he emerged from the Room and returned to the Slytherin dungeons. He had finally done it. His mother would be safe. His father would return. He would get his life back. He still had to complete his task, but the foundations had been laid. A nervous elation coursed through his blood while he scurried down the deserted staircases. 

Passing the corridor near the Great Hall, he heard a voice, softly coaxing in the dark. “Trevor, boy, where are you?” Longbottom – Gryffindor’s walking catastrophe – on the look out for his toad. Draco’s lips widened into a mirthless sneer. How could he have ever thought the other to be his equal enough to speak to him?

A toad’s croak, clearly audible in the night’s silence, interrupted his thoughts. Draco heard some steps in the direction of the croak; _Lumos_ and a happy clucking followed. Not knowing why, Draco lit his own wand as well. Longbottom, who was crouching on the floor with his newly found toad, looked up.

“Malfoy?” The Gryffindor scrambled to his feet, cradling the animal in his hand to his chest. “I was looking for Trevor,” he said, “my toad.” As if Draco wouldn’t know, when Snape had threatened to poison the slimy lump every week for as long as the other had been suffering in Potions class.

“I see,” Draco drawled, “Trevor. You found him. That’s just… great.”

“Oh yes, I did.” Longbottom, missing the sarcasm completely, beamed at him. “It’s always good to beat Mrs. Norris on that.” He hesitated, and then asked: “Feeling better, Malfoy?” Just the same words he had used some weeks ago. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, that boy.

“After Gryffindor’s hero almost murdered me? What do you think... Longbottom?” For a short moment, Draco had been considering whether he should use the other's name at all, but then Longbottom would surely miss such a finely placed insult as well.

The Gryffindor blushed deeply. “I’m… er… sorry about that.”

“Are you? How come? Aren’t all of you constantly licking Potter’s boots?” Draco’s words shot from his lips like jinxes from the tip of a wand active in duel. Did Longbottom think that he had a claim on feeling sorry for Draco, just because he had found him in the shelter of the garden a few weeks ago? Draco realised that the other boy was watching him in silence, not reacting to his angry retort. “What are you looking at? Still fond of me?” He knew it was lame, but he couldn’t think of anything else. 

Longbottom slowly shook his head, reminding Draco of the gesture he had used back then in the garden. “Malfoy, stop it. I am Harry’s friend, but I’m not Harry himself. And while I will not tolerate someone insulting him, or me, if I consider something an insult, I won’t hex you on sight either.” 

Draco tried to muster his energy for another assault, but his mind came up blank. He didn’t have much power left. With his task being almost completed, the last strand of vigour seemed to have left him. He went for a different strategy.

“Ah, we’re being diplomatic then. See, Malfoys are born diplomats. So, to answer your question, yes, I do feel better.”

Longbottom, who seemed able to find friendly streaks even in the actions of an Acromantula, nodded. “That’s good, Malfoy. Good to hear that whatever bothered you seems to be solved.”

Draco almost flinched, but there was no way the other could know. “Yes, Longbottom, it’s solved now.” Strangest of all, he felt a touch of relief. He also felt so very tired, his eyes burning dry in their sockets.

Longbottom nodded again, then sighed. “I have to go now. Need to finish Flitwick's essay for tomorrow.”

In the years before this one, Draco thought wistfully, he would have finished the essay a day after the assignment had been given to them. This year, he knew that tomorrow would earn him another detention with the Charms Professor. Draco forced himself to sneer and yet, at the same time, he kept up with their conversation. “That’s a tough one for you, I suppose.”

“I’ll manage. At least I like the subject.” Longbottom shrugged. “And failing an essay’s not the end of the world…” His features relaxed into a smile. “So long, and a good night’s rest, Malfoy.” 

The greeting was something he could acknowledge. “Goodnight, Longbottom.” 

The boy’s smile, and gentleness, nearly made Draco feel sorry for him. This one at least had never taken advantage of him, despite certain… opportunities. An action that Father, were he around, would call ‘stupid’ at best. And yet it made Longbottom almost… human. There was nothing wrong with being human, Draco concluded, as long as it didn’t go together with weakness. The Longbottoms were one of the old pure-blood families as well, in spite of that they had ended up on the other side of the war. This boy, who had started life at Hogwarts with not much more abilities than an ordinary Squib, had turned into someone assertive and able to fight. 

Draco felt oddly comforted and, at the same time, extremely uncomfortable. _The end of the world._ It was yet to come, but come it would. He watched Longbottom’s retreating back. Suddenly, he could feel his hands and legs shaking from exhaustion. He tried to revive his earlier feeling of elation, but could only think about his bed, which was another seven corridors away. And he still had to finish his task tonight. The burning in his eyes grew, and he knew they had to look dreadful, all red and swolen. He rubbed them vigorously. “You’ll wish an essay were all that mattered,” Draco mumbled, with the other boy already too far away to hear him. “Soon. You’ll wish. So soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to Green. Could there be another title? With this story, the idea of the Rainbow Series was born. Mikabird did the first beta-reading, and Nomango helped to finish the fic. Thank you so much to both of them. Any remaining mistakes are mine.


End file.
